


The Name

by narcissablaxk



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Edward Nygma - Freeform, Just a little angst, M/M, Not much tho, One Shot, Oswald Cobblepot - Freeform, The Riddler - Freeform, penguin - Freeform, prison break - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:57:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Oswald struggles to solve Ed's riddle so Ed will break him out of Arkham.





	The Name

Oswald turned the slick paper over in his hand, his eyes running over the words but not really seeing. He memorized them already. His chin was still trembling, a terribly obvious precursor to tears, but there was no one to see him cry here. He could, if he desired, let it out. He wouldn’t be the only one in this god-forsaken place to cry. The screams of the insane carried farther into the night air outside of Arkham than he’d like to admit, but he had always resolved that he would never lend his voice to that chorus. Tonight, he considered it. Instead, he steadied himself by trying to refold the origami penguin, following the deepest creases in the paper first. 

_Ed was coming to break him out._

The trembles started in his hands, and soon, Oswald has to admit he had no idea how to fold a damn origami penguin, and left the sad excuse for a bird shape sitting on the edge of his bed while he leaned against the wall to admire it from a distance. 

_Ed was coming to break him out._

A shaky sob escaped his lips, and he clamped his hand over his mouth to keep it in. The riddle played on a loop in his head, echoing loudly in the parts of his mind that Hugo Strange had tried to empty out. It was foreign, hearing something there, he figured, but Ed always had that effect on him; he was so much of a person, so much of… _something_ , that Oswald was constantly learning new things about himself, realizing parts of himself that he never knew existed loved Ed too. 

_“I am held captive all day. My brilliance locked away. The prison must be broken. The key? My name, which must be spoken.”_

But what if it was a lie? Oswald stared at the lump of what used to be a penguin, trying desperately to make his mind decide if he wanted to be optimistic or pessimistic. Originally, the answer to the riddle was simple: call Ed by the name he preferred, The Riddler, and he would help him escape. Feed his ego, and Oswald would get his freedom. 

And what if he was wrong? 

There was something lurking in Ed’s eyes when he sat across that table, when he laughed hollowly at Oswald’s disheveled appearance. It wasn’t sadistic, the way the Riddler had laughed at him before, but an imitation. A fake. Oswald could see that same façade in the way Ed’s lips couldn’t quite keep the mocking smile in place. 

Ed was still in there, no matter how much the Riddler didn’t want him to be. What if the riddle was Ed leaving him something instead of the Riddler? What if Ed needed Oswald to save him from himself? 

It was optimistic, and if Oswald were being entirely honest with himself, it was idiotically naïve. Ed promised that Oswald would die by his hand, penance for killing Isabelle. 

Isabell- _ah_ , he mocked inwardly. 

There was nothing to do but wait, and nothing to do but sleep, but Oswald could do neither of those things. Instead, he listened to the other inmates scream and fight and cry and tried desperately not to be just another voice in the cacophony. 

***

It was another week before Ed could find the opportunity to get back to Arkham. Part of it was the time it took for him to pay off some of the guards he couldn’t avoid, and part of it was the Riddler. Sometimes, it got hard to distinguish where the Riddler ended and Ed began, and sometimes he would sit and stare at the wall for hours, muttering to himself, trying to figure out what he wanted. 

He wanted to save Oswald, but part of him wanted him out of Arkham only to have better access to him. He would be so much easier to kill if he weren’t behind bars. The other part of him remembered the deep ache he felt when he thought Oswald was dead, the forlorn anguish that tore at his insides every moment Oswald was dead. 

Perhaps that was something he needed to tell Oswald, Ed reflected. Oswald would know what that meant. 

No, he couldn’t tell him, the Riddler argued, he couldn’t tell Oswald because that would just give him the opening he needed to betray him again, to hurt him again. No, when it came to Oswald, being closed off was safer. It was a strategic choice. 

The guards let him in without checking him, as per their agreement. The Riddler nodded to them both, adjusting the lapels of his green jacket, and Ed allowed the cocky smile to take over his face. Yes, closed off was good. 

It was easy to slip out of the green outfit that he wore when he came in, and it was easier to steal a guard’s clothes. Ed shoved the offending green outfit to the bottom of the laundry basket and lowered the cap on his head, covering his distinguishable glasses. It was an easy, leisurely plan from here. No need to draw attention to himself. 

Oswald was sitting in the corner of his cell when Ed arrived, his head on his knees. He looked so small, so unlike the Penguin, that Ed paused to stare. When had Oswald allowed this place to sap him of his personality, of his fire? How long did it take before Arkham broke him? 

It was a crime for which Edward would never forgive the asylum. 

Ed left the laundry basket just on the other side of the cell and pulled out his lock pick set and settled in to work, the lax security system a gift. It took him less than thirty seconds to unlock the door, and less than ten to get the basket inside. 

“Oswald,” he whispered, trying not to startle him. But Oswald looked up, his eye even more swollen and purple than it had been a week ago, and Ed knew, instinctively, that Jerome had beat him again. The rage filled him with an intensity that he could not explain, and he had to take several breaths to convince himself that deviating from the escape plan to murder Jerome would probably result in his own imprisonment. 

Oswald had his hand on his neck faster than Ed could react, and he quickly found himself pressed against the other wall of the cell, trying to pull breaths from the little bit of his windpipe that wasn’t being crushed. 

“Os, what, what are you doing?” he wheezed, trying to keep the Riddler at bay. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t decode your riddle?” Oswald hissed, his eyes far too wet to be angry. “Did you really just come here to pretend to break me out so I would call you by your stupid name? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” 

He squeezed, even harder, as if to drive home his point, and Ed saw stars, the edges of his vision blackening. As quickly as he could with the strength he had left, he brought his hand up to Oswald’s cheek, his thumb brushing just so over the scratch that was just starting to heal. 

The hand around his neck loosened. 

“Oswald,” Ed whispered. “Answer the riddle.” 

The hand tightened again and Oswald’s tears spilled over. “I won’t!” he hissed. “I won’t.” 

“Say it,” Ed insisted. 

“Your name is Ed Nygma,” Oswald replied. “That’s your name.” He was suddenly overtaken by something Ed couldn’t see, and his hand dropped away from his neck entirely. 

Ed heaved a breath, sagging against the wall of the cell, trying to regain his surroundings. Oswald was staring at him, he could feel the weight of his gaze; he was trying to decide if Ed as going to attack him or not, if the Riddler would declare him incorrect and incompetent. 

Finally, when the silence had stretched on long enough, when Ed could finally breathe without trouble, he tilted his head toward the cart. “Get in,” he said, his voice raspy and broken. 

Oswald narrowed his eyes at him in disbelief. Ed understood the hesitance, sure, but they were running out of time. “I thought I had to answer the riddle to get out,” he said. 

He could feel the Riddler preen, satisfied that Oswald had been agonizing over the answer to his riddle, but Ed chose to ignore it. “Get in the damn cart, Oswald.” When the man continued to stare at him, he put his hand back on his cheek, the same way he had stunned him earlier. “Get in the damn cart, I said,” he repeated. “Before I leave you here.” 

“But –”

He had two hands on Oswald’s face this time, and the silence that followed felt like years. His eyes were so green, so full of emotion, and Ed had to let him go to respond. “You have to cover yourself with the clothes. I have some new clothes for you on the outside, but we have to get out first. So get down and don’t make noise.”

“Ed –”

“Yes,” he replied impatiently. 

“It really is you?” he asked, so brokenly, and so quietly that Ed was momentarily filled with rage again, at himself, at the Riddler, at every single person in this damn asylum. 

“Get in the cart, Ozzie.” 

***

Getting out was easy; the guards left corridors open to the basement, where Ed had a car waiting in the loading dock. No one looked twice at the man collecting laundry, and Oswald never made a noise in the cart. 

He let Oswald sneak into the backseat of the car, where Ed had a shirt and pants waiting. 

“You’ll have to make do with my shirt, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to ignore the wide-eyed stare that had taken over Oswald’s face sometime in the escape. “I couldn’t find any of yours. The pants are yours, though.” 

Oswald got dressed in silence, the stark white of the shirt bringing his wounds into greater relief. Ed spent that time hiding the laundry cart, and replacing the uniform with his clothes, now partly wrinkled from the journey. When he returned, Oswald was sitting in the back seat, door open, his feet planted firmly on the pavement. 

“Am I your prisoner now?” he asked, his eyes on the dirt, on his shoes, on anything but Ed. 

The Riddler jumped at the chance, but Ed found it was easier to keep him in check when he was looking at Oswald, at Oswald in _his_ shirt, his bruised face in desperate need of stitches and bandages. 

“No,” he said softly. “Of course not.” 

He stood in front of him, keys to the car in his hand. Oswald finally looked up from the ground to meet his eyes, the fear of the prison already starting to diminish. 

“You can leave, if you want,” he said. “You really are free now.” 

Oswald stared at him for a long time, searching for a lie, for the riddle. But Ed gave none. Finally, he stood and embraced him, holding him tighter than he did when he thought Butch had killed him. It was a hug of times past. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

Ed didn’t say anything, but held him tighter.


End file.
